True Colors
by sphinxofthenile
Summary: Crisis Core. It has always been just a fool's hope anyway. Sephiroth/Genesis


**Disclaimer: Do not own them, they own me.**

**A/N: Ooookay, so, this is the result of a rapid bunny attack from nowhere, likely the worst thing I've ever written in the fandom (come on this could be a high school AU with not much effort!) and it's angsty, it's cheesy, it has FLUFF for god's holy sake! There, don't say I didn't warn you!! Also, the end might be a bit confusing, though I tried to amend that. And we are SO not talking about this anymore, okay? Thank you.  
**

**On a sidenote, I am currently busy with uni stuff, but I have claimed five CC prompts over at InsaneJournal's areyougame community for October. This my first time doing this, so I'm kind of nervous... Other works might be halted by that, so please be patient? The finished fics will of course be posted here as well. But if you feel up for the challange, go and claim your own prompts!**

* * *

Genesis hates the mass. The crowd is huge and noisy and there is _always_ someone who didn't have time to take a shower between training sessions. It's not like he couldn't afford to order take out, but, alas, Shinra thinks it is necessary to strengthen the spirit of SOLDIERs or some senseless idiocy like that by compelling their best to appear amongst them regularly and show that they are also just mere humans themselves.

Except, Genesis never considered himself a mere human.

He looks around with a look of resigned detest, all too grateful to catch sight of Angeal near the back of the huge mass hall and makes his way towards him with quick, graceful steps. He sits down with a sigh next to his friend who seems to be rather enjoying his meal, so Genesis takes a mouthful too and has to fight the urge to spit it right back.

"What on Gaia _is_ this?" he asks once he manages to swallow with no little effort.

"Vlakorados stew. Supposedly."

"Tastes like saw dust soaked in machine oil."

"Oh, never knew you tried that," Angeal teases, not really helping Genesis' mood any.

"I hope you have something decent in mind for dinner," the redhead picks at his food with absolute disinterest, eyes darting around for some distraction from the misery he has to suffer, and they remain fixed on a figure slowly approaching until his blues meet the mako green ones with the slit pupils and as if woken from a dream he returns his eyes to his plate.

If there is something worse in the mass than the food, it most certainly has to be the company.

Instead of just simply passing them by as usual, the silver general stops right by their table, and Genesis is suddenly all too aware of the gazes directed towards them, full of admiration and envy. He makes a face at the transfixed idiots staring like there is no tomorrow.

"Angeal Hewley, First Class Striker asked me to have a look at your sword defense skills. Would a spar tonight be convenient for you?" Sephiroth asks in a quiet, detached tone, and Genesis feels something inside him cringe.

"I'm very grateful for the opportunity, Sir, but I've already promised Genesis to see his recitation of Loveless tonight," Angeal looks at the general, at Genesis, back at the general, then repeats it a few times.

"I see," the man nods, long hair following the movement like a silver wing.

"No, you really should accept it, Angeal," Genesis cuts in, words dripping sugary sarcasm. "After all, not many get the privilage to train with _the_ mighty Sephiroth."

"But Gen..."

"We will find another time suitable for you," Sephiroth cuts the impending argument short. "From what I gather, your friend is trully an expert on the topic, it would be a shame for you to miss it."

Genesis opens his mouth for some spiteful reply, then closes it without uttering a word, eyes wide and disbelief evident in them. The general didn't just... He didn't.

He didn't just compliment him, right?

He watches numbly as the ever so unreadable green eyes finally turn away, stares at the back of the silver hero, finally realising the man is leaving.

"Tonight at the Red Carpet, eight sharp."

Sephiroth pauses for a second then keeps walking without a backward glance, and Genesis slumps back in his chair.

Great, he just made an idiot of himself.

--

His eyes scan the crowd for what seems to be the hundredth time. So many people have come, far more than he had excepted, but the one he is desperately hoping to see he searches for in vain. He perks up at every spark of silver, of green, just to be disappointed over and over again. The lump in his throat is more and more pronounced after each time, sudden angry skittishness creeping through his nerves like poisonous snakes.

Only five minutes until they start.

He pours a glass of water, downs it in one go, lips suddenly far too dry, then lifts one red gloved hand to adjust his hair, lowers it immediately with an irritated frown, the expression becoming only more obvious as he catches himself looking through the crowd yet again. Angeal gives him a encouraging smile and Genesis bites his lip.

It has always been just a fool's hope anyway.

Then the lights turn gold, and his legs carry him to the center of the stage, even though he would rather just leave, all previous enthusiasm gone. Still he stands there, looks at the people, half-blinded by the reflectors, and slowly opens his mouth to speak.

--

Genesis enters his room in a swirl of furious red, kicking the door shut behind him with a force that threatens to break the hinges, and he presses his back to it, his forehead that now feels feverish with feelings he doesn't want to know about, the thunder of clapping hands and rapturous ovation still ringing in his ears.

But he, he didn't come.

Goddamn bastard. Who does he think he is? Too perfect for them, for _him_...

His hand balls into a fist before he notices it, collides with the hard surface of the wood.

God. Dammit.

Too bad the only alcohol in his place is one negligible bottle of champagne. Not like he would ever sink as low as to touch it because of someone, especially not some arrogant, uptight, conceited, brusque, gorgeous...

He squeezes his eyes shut, a futile attempt to stop their quivering.

No. He is stronger than that. No one can do that to him. No one.

Where was that champagne again?

He pushes himself away from the door, taking a step and staying frozen to the spot, eyes locked on the plain white envelope on the soft carpet, obviously pushed in through the crack under the door, seeming strangely threatening all of a sudden.

Still, he picks it up. It's not closed and there is nothing written on it. What could it be? What if it's not meant for him? Who could...? He holds it in his hand as if weighting the paper, eyebrows knotting in a frown as he disappears with it in the bedroom just to emerge a few moments later again with an excited smile that is threatening to split his face in two, laughing into the receiver of his cell phone when Angeal finally picks up.

In the bedroom, there is an envelope resting on the nightstand, in it a paid taxi bill from the ShinRa Tower to the Red Carpet and a simple white card with the words "Trully an outstanding performance", the signature a plain, perfect S.

Now, where was that champagne again?


End file.
